God save the jubilee

On Wednesday the Queen will have been on the throne for exactly 50 years, but tragically this joyous anniversary seems to be regarded with widespread cynicism and apathy. Unemployed single parents lie around the house saying: "Why should I care about some old woman who happens to be queen?"

"Because I'm your mother!" she says to them. "Now get off the couch and go and tour Canada or something."

Social commentators are left wondering what has happened to this unpatriotic society when so little respect is shown to our head of state. How different from the happy innocence of her majesty's silver jubilee back in 1977, they say. Back then, in village greens across Merrie England, rosy-cheeked teenagers wearing black bin liners and safety pins through their noses spat and pogoed to the sound of the Sex Pistols and The Clash. Yes, the whole nation came together in the unifying spirit of hate and anarchy, the poet laureate Sir John Rotten penned his jubilee poem "God Save the Queen, the fascist regime that made you a moron," and thousands of young citizens with mohicans had "No Future" tattooed across their foreheads. Ah, happy days.

In fact the idea that Britain was always a nation of monarch-loving loyalists who spontaneously celebrated every anniversary is about as believable as today's royal wedding vows. Henry III, for example, ruled for 56 years but his golden jubilee was a flop. "Henry III?" they said, "Erm, now which one's that then? 'Cos Henry V is Agincourt isn't he, and Henry VIII is six wives and all that, so Henry III - is he the one with the hump who killed the princes in the tower? No hang on..." Charles I was just approaching his silver jubilee when the committee arranging the festivities decided it might be more fun to chop his head off. And then all the jubilee mugs had to be repainted with just the stump of his neck showing.

Other royal celebrations were an even bigger wash-out: "King Ethelred, have you made all the preparations for the street party?"

"Oh my god, is that today? I haven't even thought about it yet..."

And now in the 21st century we are all supposed to dash out into the street, introduce ourselves to the neighbours we've never met before and organise a spontaneous community knees-up. Street parties are a strange concept. You spend years telling your kids not to step out on to the road, nearly yanking their arms off if they so much as put one foot off the pavement. And then you plonk the kitchen table in the middle of the street and tell them to eat their lunch there.

"What are you crying for darling?"

"I'm scared! It feels wrong!" stammers the terrified child.

"Don't be silly, now come on, eat up before the table gets clamped!"

(And then the following week her big brother wanders out of McDonald's chomping on a Big Mac and the parents say: "How revolting! Eating your lunch in the middle of the street, honestly dear, can't you eat that indoors?")

Street parties, like the royal family, are just a bit out of fashion. Of course it is not so long since "Palace" was the soap opera of the moment. In the 1980s we had royal weddings, even more royal babies and Diana and Fergie perfectly reflected the good taste and intellectual rigour of the age. But suddenly the fairy-tale went into reverse and the princes turned into toads. Windsor Castle burned down after granny left her vests drying on the paraffin heater and Princess Anne got divorced prompting a bitter court battle over custody of the horses.

So this year does present us with a wonderful anniversary. It is 10 years since the annus horribilis, which is not some weird condition you develop from sitting on the throne for too long, but was the Queen's own phrase to describe the year when it all fell apart for the royal family. 1992 was the year the mask slipped and we saw the truth.

So wave that flag and open that champagne. Because for a decade now, nobody has cared about the monarchy. Hooray, we won't have to hold a street party and watch our neighbours waiting to race for that parking space right outside their house as soon as the cars are allowed back in the road.

In one last ditch attempt to appear relevant and with it, the monarchists are organising a more modern type of party. Sir Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and Sir Elton John are teaming up for a special jubilee pop concert. "Ah! Aren't they marvellous?" the old ladies will say, "the way they just keep on going. They do so much for tourism and they work so hard and you shouldn't criticise them because they can't answer back." Suddenly I agree with all the royalists saying things were better in 1977. It makes you nostalgic for punk.

I don't blame the Queen personally of course - she's just badly advised. No one's advised her to declare a republic.